Teen Sherlock
by primitiveLOGIC
Summary: An alternate universe of Sherlock in adolescence... maybe?
1. I Don't Count

**Fanfiction based off of DrSlug's amazing Teen Sherlock comics. Be sure to check them out!**

 **Find This One:**

 **art/Teen-Sherlock-Molly-389411251**  
 **art/Teenager-Sherlock-John-Watson-390889981**  
 **art/Teen-Sherlock-Addictions-Part-1-392689629**  
 **art/Teen-Sherlock-Addictions-Part-2-the-end-P-393220736**

 **Find Them All: gallery/45469663/Teen-Sherlock**  
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 **A/N: The plot, story, inspiration, and cover art belong to the wonderful DrSlug. BunBunTeddyBunBun is, as usual, my editor. Enjoy and be sure to leave me a review!**

 **Disclaimer: I'm not Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, Martin Freeman, or Benedict Cumberbatch, unfortunately. Sorry.**

* * *

 _Sherlock sighed, his back turned against the girl behind him, her mousy brown hair tied back in a ponytail, like it always was. It was nice to know some things didn't change. She stood timidly with her eyes on the ground, flickering up to Sherlock every now and then. Sherlock took another breath, realizing he'd stood still for far too long, and turned around. He looked at Molly, who's eyes were now fixated on his. Biting her lips, nervous habit._

 _His expression was dull, but her eyes were sparkling. His eyes were already starting to burn. He supposed he should get it over with. He only gave himself a moment of hesitation, before rushing the word out faster than he ever did with his deductions, and he asked what seemed like should be a simple question. "Date?"_

 _Almost immediately, and all at once, Molly's eyes began to sparkle as she rushed forward, almost as if to hug him. But noticing his uncomfortable look and remembering who she was standing in front of, she settled for awkwardly standing close to him, her arms against her chest and her hands clasped, stopping mid-rush. Although she knew it wasn't right to feel so enthusiastic, considering the circumstances, she couldn't help but exclaim, "Yes!"_

 _They would have been nose to nose, if not for Sherlock's height, despite the fact that Molly was on her toes. Sherlock leaned away from her, searching his Mind Palace for what he was supposed to say._

 _For once, Sherlock wasn't able to keep it all down and push it back into a dark room in his Mind Palace. The walls were breaking, and it was all gushing out. Instead of returning Molly's gestures and faking happiness, as he might have to slightly cheer himself up, he turned away from her again and curled up into a ball, disregarding the file in his Mind Palace labeled, "Societal Rules". Molly's lips dropped into a concerned expression, confused once again, although deep down, she knew what could be bothering him. Hell, she did know what was upsetting him. She asked him anxiously, "Sherlock?"_

 _He didn't reply._

 _She crept up towards him, not wishing to make him lash out at her as she knew that he may do. What she noticed now, however, startled her more than it should have. Distressed, she asked, "Sherlock, are you crying?"_

 _He still didn't look at her, but he muttered, "Please, Molly..."_

 _He sighed again, for the millionth time, peeking up through bleary eyes just for a few seconds to peer down at the road below, from the rooftop he was sitting on. Sherlock looked away, beginning to get a little bit dizzy. "Just leave me alone."_

 _Molly bit her lip and kneeled down beside him, before reaching out a hand to place on his back, afraid he might push her away. She struggled to know what she could possibly say. She gave him caring eyes, despite the fact that he couldn't see her._

 _"It's going to be okay... You'll see." she smiled, just a little. It was unclear to her who she was comforting. "You can't blame yourself for John's death."_

 _Sherlock threw his hands up in the air and whipped his head around to Molly, wet tears strolling down his face, red eyes meeting Molly's._

 _His words were spoken bitterly as he asked angrily, "And how would you know that? Did you kill any of your imaginary friends!?"_

 _Sherlock's eyebrows dropped down at his lash, perturbed._

 _Molly raised her hand off of Sherlock's back, becoming afraid._

 _"I..." she began, unsure where to even begin. She started what was supposed to be easiest and told him quietly, "Am sorry."_

 _"Oh, Molly Hooper." she thought, desperately criticizing herself. "Sorry won't fix anything, and you know Sherlock knows that. You ought to put more thought into your words."_

 _She shook her head, thinking silently, "It's much too late now. You know you won't get that date either. It won't ever happen again."_

 _She bit her lip before saying hesitantly, out loud, "Social skills are not my expertise, you know..."_

 _Sherlock snorted at her before rapidly realizing his emotional mistakes. Although he really didn't want to, he stood, and swiftly wiped the tears off of his face with his arm, before turning to Molly with a somewhat cocksure smile. Both of them knew it was no where close to real. He bit the inside of his lips, so Molly couldn't see as he quickly filed through "Social Expertise" in his Mind Palace. It definitely needed more information._

 _Inwardly he was quietly panicking at what she might think of him now, but he kept it all down as best he could._

 _"I apologize Molly. What I said was inappropriate." he said, reaching out a hand to help her up._

 _When Molly kept her hands clasped together and her face a concerned expression, Sherlock awkwardly withdrew his hands, stuffing them into his pockets. Seeing no response from Molly, he reminded himself,_ it didn't matter.

 _Without another_ _word, he strolled away quicker than he needed to, reaching the door leading downstairs as quick as he possible could. Molly sighed, eyes to the ground again, feeling more timid than she had before. Just when she had thought she couldn't possibly feel worse, Sherlock had proved her wrong. She pressed her lips together._

 _"It's okay Sherlock..." she spoke, although he was gone and the door was shut. "At least you showed some emotion."_

* * *

John strolled through the halls, listening to Mycroft's words, something about graduation and universities. It sounded important, but he couldn't help but be distracted by the shouts just outside the hall. People were surrounding two men, one of which was taking an immense beating.

"Sorry Mycroft," John apologized as he interrupted him, making Mycroft frown, and John continued to ask, "Who's that fellow in trouble over there?"

Mycroft turned, sticking his nose up as if he didn't already live and breath the air of importance, in John's opinion. He supposed Mycroft really wasn't all that bad, he'd only known him for a few minutes, after all. Mycroft turned to see where John was looking, his hand on the knob of the door that lead them inside. Indeed, one with a mess of curly hair on his head had a hand on his neck, and another hand punching his face repeatedly while people shouted taunts and slurs at him.

Instead of looking distressed and calling the headmaster, as John thought he would have, Mycroft looked dully at them and replied, "Oh. That would be my brother."

John looked at Mycroft, concerned for Mycroft's unnamed brother. He coughed. "Aren't you going to, uh, help him?"

Mycroft grinned, John frowned. Mycroft even looked somewhat proud before asking John, "Help him?" Mycroft laughed, "Just watch."

John's frown deepened, but Mycroft's eyes were fixated on his brother, who had now pushed the man off of him with his feet while lying down on his back, having previously being choked, he turned the tables, his own hand on the shorter man's neck. John couldn't help but follow Mycroft's eyes. With the momentum the brother had from pushing the bully back, he stumbled forward, placing a hand on the ground, crooked, cocky grin on his lips, eyes set directly in the shorter-than-him man that stood before him. Mycroft's brother stood up as well, arms in a fighting stance that looked a little weak in John's eyes. The kid was absolutely scrawny. John still wasn't able to comprehend why Mycroft wasn't helping.

"You're all idiots!" the brother shouted, still grinning with his eyes fixated only on the man in front of him. John could only see the brother's eyes flicker up and down the "idiot's" body, before landing a hard punch to his nose, his eyes completely focused. John supposed he was getting an inkling of why the brother was getting beat up by now. He seemed awfully cocky.

"Anderson!" came a female cry, seeming to be a sympathetic cheer for the man that now had a possibly broken nose. Within moments, the brother grabbed so called Anderson's ears, pulled them towards him and landed a kick to his crotch. Anderson fell to the ground, grimacing.

"Oh..." many people said, their cheering hands silently lowering down to their sides. Whispers of, "Freak!" and "Call the headmaster!" echoing through the field now that their hero Anderson was out of the game.

John couldn't help but shout an excited, "Woohoo!" before adding, "You showed him, mate!"

He felt both of the Holmes' eyes look at him, confused. Everyone else in the field shared the same expression.

John flashed the brother a faltering smile. The lanky boy stalked up to John, somewhat leaving behind the slurs and quiet taunts. Instead of looking at John however, he looked at Mycroft first with his eyebrow raised, as if John was invisible.

"Making new friends, Mycroft?"

John beat Mycroft to answering him, saying, "Hey there! I'm John Watson."

While he would've normally stopped there, he really couldn't help but add, "Amazing technique!"

John swore he saw the boy's cocky grin increase. Mycroft leaned down to John's short height and helpfully told his brother, "John just transferred here from St. Andrews."

Immediately, the boy's grin dropped into a frown as his eyes flickered up and down John's body too, just as they had Anderson's. John's own smile faltering while Mycroft's eyebrow raised slightly higher, seemingly at the boy's disregard for manners, but he couldn't be sure. The boy asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"What?"

"Your dad. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinked. Then he looked at Mycroft, half expecting an explanation, utterly confused. Did Mycroft say something? John couldn't help but ask, "How on Earth-"

But the boy was already gone, giving his brother a sarcastic salute and the words, "Laterz, Mycroft."

Despite the boy's attitude, Mycroft had his own cocksure grin on his face, before patting his pocket for his phone, realizing it was gone. He glanced up angrily at his brother, "Did you steal my phone again, you twat?!"

Although the two couldn't see it, although Mycroft could feel it, Sherlock was grinning ear to ear, "Sherlock Holmes. Nice meeting you, Watson."

The whole scene just made John smile.

* * *

It wasn't long before John and Sherlock indeed became very close. It wasn't at all surprising for John to be so worried about his friend, even though they'd only known each other for a few weeks.

 _Click, clack, click, clack, click clack click clack click clack clickclackclickclackclickclackclick_

John was running, running faster than he thought he ever could have. He couldn't help but think bitterly, "This will give my mates something to talk about, running to save your male best friend."

He immediately shot those ugly thoughts down as soon as he realized what he was saying; he knew those thoughts were only a distraction. What if Sherlock was dead? What if he was really hurt? What if he'd gotten badly beaten up?

"Where is he?" John called to Molly, who was lagging a little bit behind him, seemingly not sharing his amount of concern, "Where did you see him, Molly?"

He was beginning to run out of breath himself. Molly called back to him, "Over there John!"

He didn't quite register her words until she pointed again, "Over there!"

Leave it to Molly to always be able to recognize when someone needs a little more direction. At the moment, quite literally.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, rushing through the streets. It wasn't long before he did indeed see the almost silent body of his friend on the ground in the alley, a few groans and twitches in Sherlock's knocked out haze. John was _terrified_.

He couldn't even hear himself mutter, "Oh God..."

 _Click clack click clack click clack_

The sounds of Molly's footsteps echoed in the alley, not too far away, "Did you find him?"

John dropped to his knees, swallowing down this information and image, although it kept getting stuck in his throat. He stuttered, "Y-yes."

Molly arrived behind John's shoulder, mighty scared, but not as scared as John was. With his voice barely audible, John asked, "...What's wrong with him?"

Molly blinked and pressed her lips together, "Don't you, uh, know, John?"

John whipped around to face her angrily. "Know what?!"

Molly took a fearful step back, and answered John with great hesitation. She subconsciously placed her arms over her chest in a half X position, fingernails digging just a little bit into her bitten lips. She cast her eyes away. "Well... Sherlock..."

She hunched her shoulders over before quickly continuing, "He has some addictions."

John gave Molly a bewildered, incredulous look. " _Addictions_? He's sixteen!"

The door swung open to the school, not too far away. A gruff voice that reminded John somewhat of his dad's called out to them, "Hey lads! What's the matter over there?"

"Oh bloody hell." Molly cried. "Headmaster Lestrade! How are we going to explain this to him?"

A few moments passed before Molly realized John wasn't answering. She turned around to see no trace of Sherlock or John. She began to panic and wildly look around all corners of the alley, although it wasn't much help, before she realized that John had Sherlock's arm around his shoulders, and he was leading his friend away.

"Hey!" she cried, cupping her hands around her face as a speakerphone, but John didn't hear. And in John's helpful arms, Sherlock managed to mumble John's name.

* * *

John grunted, struggling to take off Sherlock's second shoe as quietly as possible, as not to wake Harry or his mother.

"Come on!" he grunted, "This damn shoe!"

Sherlock was somewhere between a drug induced unconsciousness, and plain old drowsiness, so he was no help. John had half-expected that he would have woken up by now, but he hadn't.

 _POP_

And off came Sherlock's shoe, flinging John back onto the ground as Sherlock's arm flopped down to the side of John's bed.

"Shhhhh..." came Sherlock's hushed voice, his arms now hugging the pillow. John glared at him before flipping open his phone to call Mycroft. It didn't even need to ring more than once before Mycroft's voice came, "Mycroft Holmes."

After a little bit of slight arguing and banter, John seemingly won. "Yes, Mycroft, I reckon he stay the night."

John paused, listening to Mycroft's voice on the other end. "My mother doesn't know he's here."

John paused to listen to Mycroft again, and to ponder what might become of the next morning. Referencing the few times Sherlock had fallen asleep in class, due to boredom no doubt, John could make an educated guess about his next words. He assured Mycroft, "No worries. He sleeps like a log. Okay. Uh huh. Ta!"

He sighed, flipping his phone shut. He looked at his friend, sleeping on the bed, snoring quietly. It looked like John wouldn't be sleeping in his bed tonight. John crept to the hallway closet to get extra blankets and bedding. He set them down beside his actual bed, and lay awake, hands clasped together with the occasional twiddle. The gray of his ceiling was the only thing meeting his eyes. It wasn't all that long before he dozed off, gray roof and quiet night lulling his eyes closed, despite his slight anxiety.

Being as he didn't go to sleep until late, it wasn't a surprise that Sherlock woke up before John did. Sherlock awoke, somehow still sleepy, and then began taking in his surroundings and deducing what must have happened before padding off to John's bathroom. He supposed John wouldn't really mind if he took a shower. It's what people did when they stayed over, wasn't it? He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging off his pants and trousers, nearly tripping on the latter. He switched on the water and it showered down on his face as he washed himself, only to nearly drift off again in the shower.

"John! Breakfast!" awoke someone who Sherlock presumed to be Mrs Watson.

"Harriet, dash it up." Sherlock heard Mrs. Watson say to John's sister as he traipsed down to the kitchen.

"John! Tea or milk?" Mrs Watson yelled to her son upstairs. "That child is driving me insane!"

Harriet stuffed a mouthful of cereal into her mouth and replied bitterly, "He's coming down, relax. I can hear him."

Instead of John, however, Sherlock sauntered into the kitchen, dripping wet from his shower and stark naked at that. The Mrs Watson nearly dropped the pan she was washing in the sink, explaining the shortage of water in the shower, and Harriet dribbled milk on her pants. It seemed both were unsure where to look or what to say.

Sherlock glanced at John's mother, who gave him a bewildered glance, seeming to have troubles keeping her eyes up. Then he glanced to John's sister, who was now spilling her cereal all over the table, hardly any manners there.

Without looking at either of them, Sherlock managed to remember _his_ manners at least, remembering the magic word as he said in a calm droll, "Tea, please."

And right then was when John woke with a start at the scream of his name.


	2. Being a Wanker

**Find them all:  
gallery/45469663/Teen-Sherlock**

 **Find these ones:  
art/Teen-Sherlock-The-Boomerang-Pt1-395150414  
art/Teen-Sherlock-The-Boomerang-Pt2-396513701  
art/Teen-Sherlock-The-Boomerang-Pt3-397668664  
art/Teen-Sherlock-The-Boomerang-Pt4-408658800  
art/Teen-Sherlock-The-Boomerang-Pt5-410274350  
**

 **Again, thank you to DrSlug and BunBunTeddyBunBun (who needs to add some stories, dammit). Reviews can be really helpful to all three of us :) Thanks for reading and enjoy!**

 **Also, I'd like to mention that while searching for a word that I haven't used for something along the lines of, "slinked", I found the word, "pussyfoot", which I was very tempted to use. I'm not sure if I should say you're welcome for that or not. Google, quote, says it means, "Move stealthily or warily. "They make a great show of pussyfooting through the greenery"". And this chapter is around 450 words less than the last one so... sorry about that.**

"Then let me test the bloody thing!" Sherlock sniggered, a challenging look in his eyes as held an inquiring hand above John's arm, Sherlock's hand attempting to grab the boomerang held in John's. Sherlock's eyes were steady on the boomerang, which they'd been arguing about repeatedly for the past few bits. John looked at him with distastefulness, but didn't walk away; or punch him for that matter, as students still continued to do with pleasure.

"No! Take my word for it, it works!" John replied, frustration beginning to become apparent. That is, to everyone but Sherlock.

"Yes, fine John!" Sherlock said, his impatience finally showing as he finally plucked the bloody boomerang from John's hands, transferring it to his own bony, slim fingers.

"Hey!" John shouted, his hands clenching. He couldn't help but feel as if he was scolding a child as he growled, "Give it back at once!"

"Not before I test it!" Sherlock retorted. John, of course, lunged forward to try to grab his boomerang back. Despite his efforts, Sherlock towered over the short man before him and used it to his advantage. He held his arm up above his head, his rolled up sleeve slinking a little bit lower. Sherlock stuck his nose up in the air, just a little, lips pursed while he whistled. Sherlock was looking quite smug at John, who's nose hardly reached Sherlock's neck. His hand hardly reached a centimeter past Sherlock's rolled up sleeve.

While Sherlock's fingers playfully twinkled around the bent part of the boomerang, his eyes were trained on John, who's eyes were fixed on the boomerang. Sherlock could feel John's impatient breath on his neck. Neither boys noticed the well dressed man stalk up behind them, or the arm in a well-tailored sleeve moving up to Sherlock's, or his hand taking the boomerang from Sherlock. A disgruntled Sherlock and a confused, but also disgruntled John peered behind them, Sherlock turning mostly around, and John peering around from behind Sherlock's back. Their eyes were immediately met with the Professor's.

"Pr-Professor Moriarty," Sherlock stuttered, surprised to see their Professor leering at them, or looking at them at all. The Professor held the confiscated boomerang in his hands.

"Both of you, Lestrade's office, now!" the Professor sing-songed, while still maintaining a certain level of superiority.

"Blimey!" John exclaimed as he looked sheepishly at Sherlock. "Now we're in trouble!"

"Nothing we can't handle, my dear John." Sherlock replied, his eyes still on the retreating back of Professor Moriarty.

* * *

Sherlock sat in his classic position, the tips of his fingers pressed together and his left leg crossed over his right. He looked drearily off to the distance, probably at some small detail nobody else was noticing, and he had an eyebrow cocked up. His converse bounced up and down. Sherlock sighed, blowing out a puff of air. He checked his watch, scrutinizing at the time. This was taking forever. He pressed his fingers back together and let his head fall back.

He hummed loudly before slipping his lower body off of his chair. Beside him, John twiddled his fingers nervously, his eyes on Headmaster Lestrade.

"This," Sherlock began, "Is. Going. To. Take. A. While."

Lestrade looked at him grumpily; this had been a long day. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. Sorry to disturb you, but I have been informed that you not only start fights in corridors, but Professor Moriarty has caught you holding a weapon..."

"Oh, a boomerang is hardly a weapon, Lestrade. It _doesn't work_." Sherlock drawled, his eyes shut and his right leg now over his left.

"You're wrong..." John muttered under his breath, looking away to the floor.

"Not the right time to disagree with me, Watson." Sherlock replied under his own breath, his eyes glancing to his friend.

"Still, you _are_ wrong!" John informed him quickly, raising his voice a bit as he kept his argumentative tone.

"Yes, fine John, thank you." Sherlock sighed, his voice more curt than usual.

"Dear, oh dear." Lestrade sighed, his head in his palm while Professor Moriarty smiled as he leaned against the door frame behind the three boys. Of course, it was a rare occasion that his smile was not filled with the feeling of being smug, triumphant, or bitter.

"You can't accept it can you?" John exclaimed, slamming his hand against the wooden armrest of his chair. Before Sherlock could get a snide comment in, he clarified, "Being wrong!"

"I am not wrong!"

"Oh, yes you are!"

"Ladies! Shut up!" Lestrade said, speaking below their voices in matter of volume, but certainly not in authority. He decided it best to end this as soon as possible, as any mature, grown man might decide. Inspirational and persuasive speeches never did any good with the Holmes family anyways, and John Watson always learned his lesson fairly quickly. "Bottom line, don't let me catch you creating problems again, or I'll suspend you. And try to behave. Don't make me call both your parents. Is that clear?"

Neither could remember whether or not they said yes, they were too busy arguing. Their feet transported their bodies outside of the door, but neither could remember how or when they did so.

"Listen to me, you git!" John shouted, "The boomera-"

"John, if you say it works one more time," Sherlock said, his voice a low hiss, "I swear, I'll punch you in the face!"

"Sherlock!" came a steel voice from behind them. Somehow, it still maintained an upbeat tone, despite being intimidating at the same time. Sherlock turned at the sound of his name and the sound of that voice. He held up his hand to make John stop talking. It didn't work. John asked, "What's the deal with Moriarty and you?"

"He and I have 'business'." Sherlock replied with a flat tone. John looked up at his taller friend, trying to look him in his eye with an angry, yet somewhat worried face. "Business? What kind of-"

"None concerning you, Watson." Sherlock said, giving him a dismissive glance. He pointed his thumb back, in the general direction of John, and asked, "Don't you have your piece of wood to play with?"

John crossed his arms and huffed, giving a frustrated but petulant look as Sherlock walked through the door Moriarty held open for him. Sherlock glanced his eyes back to his only friend as Moriarty gave the back of Sherlock's head a smug smile.

John looked through the blurred glass window in the door, which clearly had the words, _LAVATORY_ marked at the top of the glass.

"Lavatory?" John asked himself. "What does Moriarty want with Sherlock in the lavatory? This can't be good."

After a while, Sherlock strolled out of the creaking door, only to notice John crouched on the other side.

"John?" Sherlock asked, genuinely confused. "What are you-"

"Two hours, Sherlock." John interrupted, shoving two fingers in Sherlock's face. John leapt to his feet to meet Sherlock's disgruntled expression. "What were you doing with Moriarty for two hours in the lavatories?"

"Okay," Sherlock said, attempting to get a grasp on the situation. "What is this? I don't even-"

John was already sniffing him, confusing Sherlock even more. John gave a large gasp, "You!" he yelled accusingly, as if Sherlock had betrayed him. "You were smoking in there?"

Sherlock crossed one of his arms against his chest while his other arm supported his hand pressing against his temple in exasperation. "Your lack of concentration to one subject at a time is quite disturbing."

John's expression remained the same; one of fury, mixed together with a drop of concern.

"And..." Sherlock sighed, "You're missing the point."

"What _is_ the point?" John shouted.

"Think, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, waving his arms in motions that John wasn't bothering to follow.

"Two people went in there." Sherlock continued before giving John a cocky smile. "But only one came out. So... Where's the professor?"

John gave his friend a dull glance. "Second door, maybe?"

"Second door indeed!" Sherlock smirked, leaning into John's face. "But to where?"

"Okay, are you high or something?"

"Why can't you see? You look but you don't see!" Sherlock grumbled turning away, his hands doing flippant motions, buzzing around his head like bees. Sherlock tried once more, "Moriarty! He- He has set a whole-"

John leaned away as his friend's hands swooped in front of his friend's body. John, getting more concerned than frustrated or angry, replied, "A whole what, you twat?"

Sherlock turned away again, waving off his friend. "If I tell you I'll put you in immediate danger!"

Suddenly, John's concern was completely out the door, and in walked in Unamusement. "Right."

Sherlock groaned and turned away from his friend, who wasn't understanding at all. After a few seconds of silence, he spoke, realizing that he couldn't hear his friend's impatient and somewhat annoyed breathing. "John?"

He soon realized his friend was no longer behind him. That was when he heard the lavatory door crack open, with John's confident, power-walk-stroll-foot steps following the low, creaking sound soon after.

"No!" Sherlock shouted after him, knowing it was too late. "Don't!"

John was too frustrated at his friend to listen.

"No John! Don't go in there!" Sherlock cried as a last chance. Sherlock ran after one of his only friends, "STOP!"

"Oh, my dear Sherlock..." Moriarty smiled, his eyes closed, just enjoying the moment as he held a terrified John in a gun-hold. In an subconscious movement, Sherlock slipped his foot back to stand in a fighting stance.

"John..." came Sherlock's low whisper as he quietly plotted and contemplating ways that this could go.

"Sherlock, get out of here!" John shouted, struggling from the tight choke-hold.

"Why?" Moriarty asked, taunting Sherlock. "Why Sherlock? Why did you need to go and make friends? You were _perfect_."

He pouted like a child would, his tone bettering his expression with a whiny, yet dangerous voice.

"Listen to me," Sherlock tried, taking a cautious step forward. "John won't say a word!"

"You were perfect."

"Just let him go. Take me instead."

"You didn't have a soul to care for." Moriarty sighed, deliberately ignoring Sherlock's words.

"Moriarty... Everybody knows I'm supposed to be a druggie."

"And that was perfect for the job." Moriarty said, acknowledging Sherlock, his whole demeanor changing. Before, he'd been a childlike psychopath, but now he seemed much more like a cold-blooded murderer. Both descriptions were correct.

"If I am found dead, nothing will lead to you!" Sherlock tried, desperate.

"Supposed to be?" John asked aloud, a hand on the arm which was holding him in a could-be-fatal choke hold. He gave a terrified glance to the gun, but now he was incredibly curious.

"Shut up." came Moriarty's voice in John's ear. Then, Moriarty pointed the gun to Sherlock, his childlike facade back once again. "You have a point. But I won't do that!"

Sherlock held his hands up in surrender, but John saw a chance to escape, with Moriarty's gun pointed away from his head. John slammed his foot onto Moriarty's, resulting in a rather unpleasant screech and an elbow to the face. With a cruel smile, the professor shot his gun, making a loud bang echo through the room.

"NOOO!" Sherlock screamed, his calm exterior shell thrown to the ground, in pieces. He made a split-second decision as he jumped onto Moriarty's back in an attempt to stop him, flailing like a flag in a tornado.

" _Get off!_ " Moriarty growled. Sherlock held Moriarty's neck in his arm, not unlike a choke hold. He prepared to punch the man before Moriarty leaned back and held the hand holding the gun up in the air, and as Sherlock fell off, he desperately clutched at the gun-wielding wrist. Sherlock fell off of Moriarty's back as Moriarty repeatedly got ready to shoot the gun, the clicking noise echoing through the walls.

"John..." Sherlock groaned on the floor. Moriarty calmly walked towards him, pointing the gun at his head once again, making a small comment. "Well... I guess I need to get my hands dirty then."

"Not much of a choice after this mess..." Moriarty sighed, as if it was a trivial thing. He took hold of Sherlock's neck. His voice grew almost sing-song before growing absolutely terrifying, "Need to destroy all the evidence... And I shall start with _you_!"

With those words, he successfully swung Sherlock around to drop the boy into the dark pool by Sherlock's curls, swinging Moriarty's own body down to the ground to hold the tall man in the water. He Sherlock stubbornly held on as Moriarty taunted him, "Die already!"

Sherlock's heart hammered in his chest, heaving for air that he couldn't reach as he tried to jerk his head up before eventually giving up.

That was when John limped in, leg bleeding profusely while Sherlock quietly drowned in the pool. With a cracking, pained voice, John managed to force out, "Professor...", just as the devil turned around.

John grabbed the boomerang out of his back pocket, where he'd stuffed it earlier, and with a mighty swing and a mighty whoosh, the professor was soon passed out while the boomerang made it back into John's hands. John glared into the water to see Sherlock's limp body floating in the water.

John jumped in with a splash to drag his drowning friend out, his blood bleeding into the clear water. He pulled both of them out with struggle, and with a snap he slapped Sherlock's wet face. "Oh come on, come on!"

John performed a few chest compressions, hoping to drag the young man back into consciousness. John's matted, wet hair dripped drops of water onto Sherlock's senseless face. John opened his friend's mouth and put their lips together, breathing into Sherlock, letting him have the air he desperately needed. Almost immediately, Sherlock shot up to cough out a whole mouthful of water. John looked at him with shock as Sherlock looked to the pool, panting and in shock as well. "I... I..."

With wet, ridiculous looking hair, Sherlock looked at his only friend in despair. "How did you..."

John grinned at him and held up the boomerang. Sherlock gave him the courtesy of a smile. "Huh. It does work."


End file.
